The Stand In

by Alam, Donna

  ‘It sounds delightful,’ Vivi drawls.

  ‘No, it really was! A little bit Narnia and a little bit redneck. Cocktails to die for and such delicious crispy calamari.’

  ‘I think I’ve heard of the crew that run the place,’ Daisy says cheerfully. ‘They’ve also got another one that’s at the back of a laundromat. It’s done out to look like a bachelor pad back in the eighties. Kitsch furniture and retro food and cocktails served by barman with moustaches like Tom Selleck.’

  ‘God,’ Vee adds, sitting back in her chair. ‘Last week, I took clients to a bar that had been recommended to me, and when we got there, it looked like a nana’s bungalow. What is it with these days? What can’t we enjoy our drinks somewhere chic?’

  ‘We live in London, Vee. We can get sleek and shiny anywhere.’

  ‘I don’t want to sit on a sofa picked up from Oxfam. Who knows where it was before? Or who died sitting in it.’

  ‘You’re such a snob.’ Daisy titters. ‘I quite like slumming it. But then again, I do currently live in a building site.’

  ‘It’s still that bad?’ I ask, my forkful of posh eggs on toast poised in mid-air.

  ‘Builders are a nightmare to deal with. They’re like bad one-night stands; they promise you that they’re laying studs, that they can totally ream your pipes, but when push comes to shove, all they deliver is a little lacklustre hammering.’

  ‘What do you know about one-night stands?’ Vee demands with an arched brow.

  ‘Everything I learned, I learned from you, dearie.’ Daisy raises her smoothie as though in tribute before turning her attention to me. ‘But tell us about your week, Heather. You’re the one with the exciting goings on.’

  ‘Yes, anymore emails from the blond bombshell?’ If I didn’t know Vee better, I’d think her nose was out of joint. She’s usually the one with news, gossip, and stories to regale. She’s the one with the exciting life. But I do know better as I nod in answer to her question, my mouth currently full of food.

  ‘Does Archer know when that man writes to you?’

  ‘Barney,’ I say. She’d better get used to his name. ‘If Archer asks, I tell him.’ I dab the corners of my mouth a little more demurely than usual as I try to ensure my response isn’t victim to my clumsy tongue. ‘I don’t readily offer up that I’ve received anything from him. It seems a little tasteless.’

  ‘It’s cruel,’ Vee answers in a cool tone.

  ‘You’re wrong.’

  ‘You’re sleeping with one man and getting love letters from another.’

  ‘That’s not how it is. Archer knows what we agreed—it was his suggestion. And Barney isn’t expecting anything but for me to spend some time with him when he gets back. Archer and me, we’re both getting something different out of this.’

  ‘And which one of you gets the broken heart?’ Her gaze is almost piercing over the rim of her coffee cup.

  ‘It’s not like that,’ I answer quietly.

  ‘Isn’t it? Do you really think he agreed to this just for sex?’

  ‘No, not just for sex. I get that he’s doing it for me, too.’ He’s not the person I thought he was. I get that on some level he’s trying to protect me. Help me. ‘But there’s probably some novelty value in the experience, right?’ I look to both of the girls, but Daisy seems to be engrossed in the contents of her smoothie and Vee? Well, it’s obvious she doesn’t agree.

  ‘How many more weeks before the good doctor comes back?’ she asks.

  ‘Four.’ I swallow over the sudden lump in my throat. Is it nerves, or regret?

  ‘So, four more weeks of smiles and happiness and legs that no longer meet at the top?’

  ‘Have I put weight on?’

  ‘Think about it,’ Vee says with a huff of a laugh. ‘Then think about what happens afterwards. What happens for you. What happens for Archer?’

  ‘You’re in funny mood, Vee,’ Daisy mutters, throwing her a reproving look.

  ‘I suppose seeing my friend throw her chance at happiness away brings out the worst in me.’

  ‘I’m not throwing my happiness away. I’m taking a chance on it.’ Archer is too much for one woman. His appetites are too great—hasn’t he said so himself?

  ‘For fucks sake, you don’t even know this Barney! He might pick his toenails, or worse, his nose!’

  I push away the childish recollections that Miranda had reminded me of. Lots of kids are grotty, it doesn’t mean they grow into grotty adults.

  ‘I do know him,’ I maintain. ‘And I’m being reminded I do by his emails. He’s kind and caring and he’s interested in me.’

  ‘And Archer is all of those things, too. And he’s here. And you’d know about his bad habits by now. You know what makes him tick and what kind of a person he is. This Barney? He could be a horror. And I know you don’t want to hear it, but not only has Archer been good to you—not only has he brought you out of your shell—but the man looks like a Greek god. Why do you want to throw that all away?’

  ‘Yes, he’s gorgeous. And funny, and kind, and caring, and he likes me. But he’s made it clear why he’s doing this. He has a life to return to. And it was a life he seemed to enjoy before, by all accounts.’

  ‘Exactly. Before. Do you think he’s enjoying himself now? Are you?’

  Of course I’m enjoying myself. I’ve had more fun the past few weeks than I can ever remember. But it’s not real and I have to keep reminding myself of that fact because if I don’t, I might find myself in a much worse place than I am right now. A place where I love a man who doesn’t love me. At least with Barney we’ll be starting from the same place. We’ll be starting from scratch.

  ‘And what happens if, when blond boy returns, you find you have nothing in common with him? Or worse, there’s no spark? What then?

  ‘Oh, Vee, mind your own bloody business, would you?’

  The table falls quiet. In fact, the restaurant falls quiet.

  What is going on with me? I never snap at my friends. My family, yes. And Archer, too. Hang on; what’s with that?

  29

  Heather

  ‘I’m choosing the red bird in the polka dotted skirt.’

  ‘The one who looks like she belongs in a magazine?’ I glance at the woman in question who’s wearing a rockabilly skirt, a white twinset, and her hair in a victory roll. It’s an absolutely cool look and very suited to the place we’re in. It’s a wine bar, I suppose you’d call it, near to Archer’s house in Shoreditch, though a little off the beaten track. He seems to know all the crazy places. Dark and atmospheric, the walls are red brick and the lights covered in purple ostrich feathers. Archer has a beer, a Camden Pils, and I’m nursing a pink cocktail inspired by the writings of Lewis Carroll. Though I don’t quite understand how. We’re seated at a high booth, the height advantage helping our evening game.

  ‘A magazine?’ Archer repeats. ‘Yeah, maybe a yellowing copy of Good Housekeeping.’ He snorts. ‘C’mon, Heather, all she’s missing are some rollers in her hair and a pinny over that dress. She’s more nineteen fifties housewife than nineteen fifties pin up.’

  ‘That’s very mean. I wear retro clothes. I hope you’re not saying these things about me while I’m not around.’

  ‘The only things I say about you when you’re not around is oww and eee.’ He feigns a creaking back. ‘Though I did find myself once whipping out my dick at work to ask Jay does this look like it’s sprained to you?’

  I don’t know whether to laugh or be horrified. Lorrified maybe, as he leans over as presses his lips to mine. ‘Close you’re mouth, sweetheart. You’re giving me all kinds of ideas. Such bad, dirty ideas.’

  ‘Archer . . .’

  ‘I love it when you say my name like that. I think I’m going to buy you a cane to go with it. And relax. It wasn’t at work. It was Elvis’s opinion I sought.’

  ‘You had me going there.’

  ‘I’d have hope you’d know I’d never share what passes between us with anyone. Not even for a
ll their bribes.’

  ‘I don’t think I want to know.’

  ‘Good. It’ll keep you ignorant of your fan club at work.’

  Now I really know he’s being ridiculous.

  ‘Getting back to our game, you wear classic retro. Clothes that will never go out of fashion. She,’ he says waving a dismissive hand, ‘is like something you see on a postcard from Blackpool.’

  ‘You’re especially mean tonight.’

  ‘Probably because I’m hungry. I haven’t had anything to eat since lunchtime and you sapped the energy out of me earlier.’

  ‘Oh diddums.’ I lean closer and brush my fingers through his hair. ‘Should I stock up on protein bars next time I go grocery shopping?’

  ‘Shopping? Who has time for shopping? Between work and screwing, parenting Elvis and the occasional night out, I have about three and a half minutes a day to myself.’

  ‘And you use those minutes to curl your eyelashes, right?’

  ‘Oops.’ Archer ducks his head as though looking at my legs. ‘Your jealousy is showing again.’

  ‘Can’t help it. My lashes are so pale I have to wear mascara in order to look like I have any. And I have to reapply it all after an hour kissing you. Kissing and the rest. Meanwhile, you roll out of bed, brush your fingers through your hair and you’re good to go.’

  ‘Don’t hate the playa. Hate the beauty game.’

  ‘I think I’ll just keep hating on your lashes, if that’s okay.’ I’ll miss him when this is over. Miss his silliness as much as I’ll miss his strong arms. These are hardly thoughts like a bolt out of the blue, more like lingering realisations that make me feel blue.

  ‘Where the fuck are those fries?’ He cranes his head, looking towards the entrance to the kitchen.

  ‘Do you think you’ll ever fall in love? Settle down?’

  ‘What? His head whips around, his expression tempered, I think. Purposely blank.

  ‘Nothing.’ I shake my head and drop my gaze. Embarrassed. Not sure I want to hear the answer. ‘Just ignore me.’

  ‘Love, like all bad habits, ruins.’ His words are chilling and so un-Archer like, but he’s not done. ‘When I find the person who shows me otherwise, who knows what’ll happen. Are we playing this game, or what?’ And just like that, the moment is over.

  Love ruins. How fatalistic.

  ‘It’s still your turn.’

  This is a silly pastime but it’s one of our favourites. Well, the one that won’t get us arrested in public. We take turns choosing someone, sometimes a couple, making up their backstory and sometimes their lives, all based on nothing but. It’s a silly game but an entertaining one.

  ‘So, the girl in the red skirt. And the guy in the double denim next to her? He’s the one. She’s got it bad for him.’

  In reality, they happen to be sitting on the same table but are both looking at their phones. It’s weird, these days I never look at mine unless it bings with a text. It used to be that I was so attached to the thing that Hayden once remarked I’d need a surgeon to remove it. Not that he’d dare say anything like that now.

  We both fall quiet as a waiter appears at the table, delivering a spinach pide and a cone of sweet potato fries, which we both dive into immediately.

  ‘Okay, so she’s neither daughter nor mistress nor mum? She’s the love interest?’ I say around a bite of bread and cheesy goodness.

  ‘Heather,’ he says, drawing out my name for effect, ‘you should know better than to assume. She’s his mum,’ he annunciates clearly, despite the fry he’s just chucked into his mouth. ‘But only for roleplaying purposes, because she’s also the love of his life. Double denim is a kinky fuck. He’s probably wearing a onesie under those baggy jeans and she probably feeds him from her boob and wipes up his sh—’

  ‘Not while we’re eating!’ I shove another fry in his smiling mouth, watching that he doesn’t bite my fingers. It’s not so much the biting but the holding and licking them that’s the issue. It’s a little obscene but he delights in making me squirm.

  Embarrassed. Turned on. A little unfulfilled until he says otherwise.

  I stir the straw in my drink as a means of keeping my eyes from him. ‘I thought you’d have gone with the girl in the fake fur.’ My gaze then follows Archer’s to where a woman in leather pants slips a fake Leopard jacket from her shoulders.

  ‘Too easy. Cruella de Ville’s meaner, younger daughter. Took a job in a circus just to get her hands on the pelt.’

  ‘I think you’ll find that came from Primark,’ I say with a snigger. ‘My turn. Hmm.’ My mouth twists a little as I survey the room. ‘The man in the blue suit. I’m going to say he’s a secret cross dresser.’

  ‘Despite that bulbous nose?’

  ‘I didn’t say he made a pretty woman. Besides, it’s like that because he has a drink problem because he can’t live his life the way he’d like on account of having a wife who is a complete nightmare to live with. Their relationship is now based on jealousy over who wears the skirt in the relationship. Think Whatever Happened to Baby Jane.’

  ‘Which one is which?’

  ‘The wife is Blanche. The husband is Jane. And they have a son who is a chartered accountant.’

  ‘Deviant, I like it.’

  ‘He might feel like a deviant but in these enlightened times, he shouldn’t. The thing is, he feels he’s too old to benefit from the whole LBGT plus community.’

  ‘No, not the cross dresser. The chartered accountant. That’s positively perverse.’

  ‘You’re ridiculous,’ I say, pointing a fry at him as though conducting a symphony.

  ‘Ridiculously good looking. Ridiculously fun. Ridiculously in l—lust with a girl named Heather.’ From his position lounging in his chair, Archer straightens. ‘What’s his name, then? Because it wouldn’t be Jane.’

  ‘The accountant?’

  ‘Old bulbus nose.’

  ‘Bill when he’s in civvies. Billie with an ie when he’s at home alone in his lipstick, knickers and frilly bits.’

  ‘Interesting.’ His expression takes on a devilish slant. ‘Bill, did you say?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So, William?’

  ‘What about him?’ From fun and stuffing my face, my heart is suddenly banging against my ribcage like a two-year-old with a toy xylophone.

  ‘Isn’t Barney’s real name William?’

  Hell. Whenever Barney, I mean William’s, name comes up, Archer gets a little cranky. I feel like he might channel Elvis and treat me like his favourite lamppost.

  ‘Will is short for William, not Bill,’ I reply equally, refusing to be drawn.

  ‘Google it if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘Because you know I’m right, and you know you’ve just emasculated your dearly beloved. You don’t need to be a psychologist to work out where that comes from.’

  ‘Armchair psychology is for idiots. And Barney isn’t my beloved anything. But all the same, making out as though I’m marrying him.’

  ‘How is old Bill, then?’

  ‘About your age.’

  ‘How old am I?’

  ‘About as old as you’re going to get if you don’t cheer up.’

  ‘I’m just checking if you know as much about him as you know about me. When he’s here, does he live in London?’

  ‘No, Inverness.’

  ‘Urgh. That may as well be another continent. You like the idea of a long-distance relationship, do you?’

  ‘At the minute I do,’ I grate out through gritted teeth.

  ‘Anything new to report in his missives?’

  ‘Nothing much to report.’

  ‘Except when he’ll be back. Any firm dates yet?’

  My gaze falls to my drinks as I mumble my answer, rubbing my lips together as though it’ll somehow help. ‘Three weeks.’

  ‘Lovely,’ Archer mutters in a flat tone. ‘Just in time for the warmer weather, then.’

  We both tur
n from the food on the table, neither of us hungry anymore.

  30

  Archer

  ‘What’s this for?’ Heather looks up from her laptop before glancing down at my gift.

  ‘Can’t I bring my girl a cupcake without there being an ulterior motive? It’s a sweet for my sweet.’ I push it a little closer, hoping she’ll eat it before our Monday morning meeting starts in fifteen minutes. A sugar hit always puts her in a better mood for at least an hour. Not that she’s usually tetchy, but Monday meetings aren’t enjoyable for anyone. It’s basically an hour spent discussing the same bullshit as last week’s Monday meeting, and there’s always some colossal tit who wants to bring up some ancient fuckwittery that no one else gives a monkey’s arsehole about. But that’s a regular Monday meeting for you.

  ‘It’s also a teeny apology.’ I tell her. ‘I know I was a bit of a bastard last night.’

  ‘Nothing I couldn’t take,’ she demurs, colour flooding her cheeks. And fuck, does she take it. She takes it so beautifully, even when it feels like time is slipping through my fingertips and I can almost sense him there, breathing down the back of my neck as I’m kissing hers.

  Three weeks. Will it be enough to get her to come to her senses? For her to see what she means to me. Three weeks for her to realise her own feelings.

  ‘Are you going to eat up?’ I swallow over my fears as I prod the cake closer to her with my index finger.

  ‘You haven’t doctored it, have you? She asks with a bold glance.

  ‘I just added a little of my secret special sauce.’

  And speaking of special, Heather picks up the cupcake, swiping her finger through the creamy icing. She brings it to her lips, her eyes falling closed as she sucks the buttercream from that delectable digit.

  ‘I maintain you are in the wrong business.’

  ‘And I maintain there’s no secret where your sauce is concerned. Want a bite?’ she proffers the cupcake in my direction as I shake my head.